Rise from the Ashes
by Kilerkki
Summary: Even the best shinobi can betray themselves. Asuma, Kurenai, and a simple gift. [Oneshot, AsuKure]


Rise from the Ashes  


-

Written as a gift for iamzuul, the once and future Asuma. Vague allusions to the ANBU RPG in which zuul plays Sarutobi Asuma and I play Yuuhi Kurenai, but all you really need to know is that this fic is set when Asuma and Kurenai are both about 19 or 20 and in ANBU together, and that Tanaka Midoriko is the ANBU bicycle.

(And if you don't know what that is, neither did I…)

_-_

_"And of course I forgive  
I've seen how you live  
Like a phoenix you rise from the ashes…  
And of course I'll forgive  
You've seen how I live  
I've got darkness and fears to appease…"_

_- Vienna Teng, "Eric's Song" _

-

He shouldn't be shaking. He realizes that vaguely, in some back part of his mind; if his hands are shaking that means his aim's not true, and the kunai that's meant for his enemy's heart might easily slide into a shoulder instead.

Only there aren't any enemies facing him anymore, and he's fairly sure that his hands only started shaking as he finished slitting the last woman's throat.

He's not sure how many he's killed. Should probably go and make sure, because that little roach in the mission office likes things nice and precise and tidy, with all the numbers in one column adding up precisely with the numbers in another, and all the papers turned in crisp and clean with no blood-stains around the edges. Clean and white and bloodless, because all the blood's on his hands instead.

_Screw him, _he thinks tiredly, and fumbles for a cigarette.

She finds him as the second cigarette is burning down to the filter, and he's slumped against a tree-trunk watching the flies buzz above the cooling corpses. _Her _hands are clean, but there's a darkening splash of blood across her breasts and stomach. It's not her own, which is good because he's not sure what he'd do if it were.

He probably looks like he's completely checking her out. He doesn't care. If she were Midoriko she'd leer back and invite him for a tumble in the fallen leaves right next to the corpses, and if she were Anko she'd probably think him intrigued by the blood, and if she were any other of the half a dozen kunoichi he can think of she'd probably deck him a good one.

But she isn't. And she doesn't. She doesn't even meet his gaze, which means he doesn't have to meet hers and offer the lies he's too damn tired to give.

She skirts the corpses—not as if she's afraid of them, but more as if she doesn't really want to tread in the blood that's slowly seeping through the leaves—and comes up on his right side, not making any effort to step silently on the crackling leaves. Still her progress is a lot quieter than his might have been; she's smaller, lighter, built on even more delicate lines than the kunoichi he killed an hour or so ago.

He thinks that's a pretty poor comparison to make, and focuses on his cigarette instead.

She sinks to her knees in the leaves beside him, close enough that he could reach down and rest his hand on her shoulder if he wanted to. Could pull her to her feet and kiss her if he really wanted to. Could—

He drops the cigarette on the ground to his other side and grinds it out with his sandaled foot even while he's pulling the pack from his pocket again, tapping one out, flicking his lighter. He inhales deeply, returns the pack and the lighter to his pockets, shoves his hands in after them. Watches the smoke drifting softly away on the breeze and tries not to think of anything at all.

Things might stay like that forever as far as he's concerned. But only a little time passes before she shifts, looking up at him. If there's blood on her lips it's the same color as her lipstick and her eyes, and both are a little lighter than the sticky spray across her breasts. He draws his hand out of his pocket and pulls the cigarette away briefly to lick his own lips; they're dry and chapped and taste of blood.

She lifts her hand, still looking at him; it takes a moment, and the elegant quirk of her brows, for him to realize what she means. He hands the cigarette over to her, and she takes a long drag before handing it back. Their fingers brush; his big tanned hand leaves a little trace of scarlet on her pale slender fingers, but she's already looking away again.

He licks his lips again and returns the cigarette to them, but for a moment he doesn't breathe.

The taste of her lipstick drowns out the blood.


End file.
